


What the Heart Has Once Owned

by plumeria47



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Established Relationship, M/M, Present Tense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-19 20:48:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9459857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plumeria47/pseuds/plumeria47
Summary: Even though Sherlock is essentially released from his end of the bargain by virtue of being unable to remember it, John is determined to remain steadfast.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Fulfilling the prompt _Someone has terminal amnesia. No hope of ever recovering their memory (whether from an accident or illness)._ Many thanks to my betas Jelazakazone, [lifeonmars](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lifeonmars) and [vix_spes](http://archiveofourown.org/users/vix_spes/pseuds/vix_spes) for their insightful remarks. All remaining mistakes are my own.
> 
> I wrote this waaay back in 2013 so it pretty much ignores more recent canon. (And Reichenbach Fall never happened.)

_What the heart has once owned and had, it shall never lose._

_~ Henry Ward Beecher_

John’s heart pounds and he’s suddenly forgotten how to breathe; Sherlock is bent over his hand, gently inspecting it after a bullet grazed him along the back, near his knuckles. John’s been protesting that _he’s_ the doctor, but Sherlock has insisted, unwinding John’s makeshift handkerchief bandage. The long, thin fingers are surprisingly warm, and his thumb unconsciously strokes John’s wrist. Thankfully, the bleeding has mostly stopped already – it really was a minor graze – and John has proper bandages at the ready back at the flat. But he’s not thinking about that right now. He’s thinking about how close Sherlock’s face is, how easy it would be to kiss him, right here, right now. He’s trying _not_ to think about the way the caress of Sherlock’s fingers is bypassing John’s hand and going straight to his dick. 

He’s been trying to ignore his feelings for weeks, months now, first chalking it up to the mind-fuckery of having every person on the planet assuming that he and Sherlock are a couple. Falling prey to the power of suggestion. He likes women just fine, after all, so he’s been rattled to find himself having erotic dreams about his best mate. Those feelings haven’t been going away, however, and John finds himself now in an agony of sensation, of need and want, to have Sherlock so near, touching him in a way he rarely does, almost intimately, and not be able to act on his feelings.

But then Sherlock looks up from his scrutiny of John’s injured hand, and John catches his breath – he cannot help it. Those blue eyes pierce him, the pupils dark and luminous The two of them stare at each other for what feels like an electric eternity and it’s not John who moves first, but Sherlock, surging forward to crush their lips together. Rough, chapped lips, the faintest hint of late-afternoon stubble, nothing at all like kissing women, and John is in heaven. He pulls Sherlock roughly to him, ignoring the pain in his injury, ignoring the fact that they’re still on the pavement near Paddington, and loses himself in the bliss of the moment.

_-_-_-_-_-_-_

“I love you, you know.” They’ve just finished expressing their feelings in entirely nonverbal ways, but as they spoon together on the bed, sated and serene, John feels the need to say it openly. Two months on, and John is happier than he can ever remember; he knows now that he is completely, deeply, almost frighteningly in love with the man who is currently wrapped around him. It seems important to say it out loud, however, especially since he’s partnered with someone who needs a flashing neon sign and possibly a cricket bat to the head before he understands social signals.

“I know,” Sherlock rumbles. He doesn’t say anything more, but from the way he pulls John closer, raising a scarred hand to his lips for a gentle kiss, John knows Sherlock loves him, too.

_-_-_-_-_-_-_

He comes to in a hospital bed. After a moment’s confusion, he suddenly remembers the accident, the sound of metal crunching as a car smashes into their cab from the side. His leg and arm are bandaged – John doesn’t remember what happened after the crash, but he’s guessing those limbs got smashed up pretty badly, given the dressings. He gives a brief assessment of the rest of his body – thankfully, everything else seems all right. But when he learns that Sherlock is in the ICU, suddenly nothing else seems all right.

He has to wheedle and plead with the staff, but he finally convinces someone to wheel him down. 

“Swelling on the brain, respirator … Jesus,” he mutters after the doctor – a former coworker of his – shows him Sherlock’s records. He glances down at the still, pale form, tubes and lines snaking everywhere, and tries not to break down in front of everyone.

_-_-_-_-_-_-_

After a few days Sherlock has recovered enough to have the ventilator switched off and the breathing tubes removed. But it’s not until those blue-grey eyes finally open that John feels like he can fully breathe again.

For all of two seconds. 

Sherlock stares at John, confusion clear on his narrow face, and John feels his blood turn cold. “Who-“ The whisper comes out with a crackle as Sherlock’s throat expresses its displeasure at being intubated. He licks dry lips and tries again. “Who are you?”

_-_-_-_-_-_-_

The more John speaks to him, the more it becomes clear that Sherlock remembers _nothing_. Not who John is, nor what they mean to each other; not where they live, not the cases they’ve worked on – not even who _he_ is. The only thing that seems to have survived is Sherlock’s ability to read incredible amounts of detail into people and situations through tiny details nobody else ever seems to notice. John feels his heart breaking into a million pieces as Sherlock shakes his head, denying every memory John tries to invoke, then confidently turns to ask the attending nurse if her car had yet been repaired. (No, it hadn’t.)

John tries everything he can think of, from bringing Mycroft in, to placing Sherlock in front of a mirror, to bringing up details of past cases. Cognitive therapists are brought in but, as time passes, it becomes clear that nothing is coming back to Sherlock. Since his short-term memory is just fine, there is really nothing more they can do, apart from giving both men suggestions and tools so Sherlock can relearn the most important aspects of his old life. 

Sherlock, being Sherlock, inhales all the “new” information. By the time he is released to John’s care, he knows his address, birthdate, school history, shoe size, the names and faces of Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Mycroft, Molly and a few other key people – either from photographs or personal visits to the hospital – right down to how John takes his tea.

_-_-_-_-_-_-_

“Right then. It’s just a bit further along this block, on the left. Get ready to get out of the cab.”

“I _know_ ,” Sherlock replies with impatience. “You showed me a photograph of the building six times. And, anyway, I’ve memorized the layout of most of central London’s major streets.” At John’s look of surprise he adds, “What else was I supposed to do with all that deadly dull time in hospital?” John supposes he should be glad Sherlock found something practical to do while he lacked corpses to whip and dangerous chemicals to play with.

Even once they’ve gone upstairs – John hobbling on a single crutch and a medical boot – Sherlock turns unerringly to his own bedroom, the one John told him about days ago, the one John removed his own personal items from days ago, in preparation for this moment. Sherlock sets his bag on the floor, and loosens his scarf - but then he looks around, uncertain where to hang up his coat. John feels his chest constrict for the millionth time since the accident – so many things he’s tried to think of, and yet, not ten seconds home, Sherlock’s already stumbling.

_-_-_-_-_-_-_

Slowly, slowly, they resume their normal life – or as close to normal as possible, anyway. The fact that Sherlock has retained most of his skills – his deductive ability, the violin, reading, writing, self-care – helps a great deal. His temperament is largely untouched, too, although this is not always so helpful. What seems to be lacking most is _content_ \- the identities of places and people he has not yet revisited comprise the most significant losses. The loss of other, more general knowledge seems to slow him down less – he has wasted no time in learning how to research a topic quickly, efficiently, and exhaustively, putting the regained information to use nearly as swiftly as he did previously.

Some things heal faster than others, however. Sherlock nearly dies in a frenzy of boredom before John’s leg is recovered enough that he can accompany Sherlock on cases again – and this is essential, to make sure Sherlock does not have to deal with people he should know, without John there providing the information he needs. His social skills were never that great to begin with, but … _Before_ … he had put at least a little effort into dealing with people he knew and semi-respected. The whole world is a stranger to him now, however, so John must steer Sherlock’s interactions more than ever. 

The only interpersonal relationship John does not try to change is the one between them. Sherlock knows they were together – it was one of the first things John mentioned after Sherlock awoke, and the one thing he has made a point of never mentioning again. Sherlock does not need the guilt of thinking he should feel a certain way toward John, now that their entire history has been erased, nor would John want him to pretend love out of obligation. The fact that Sherlock can still unerringly coax Bach from his violin, but cannot remember ever running those same talented fingers over John’s body … well, John tries not to dwell on that too much. What matters is that Sherlock is again his good friend and, as such, trusts John to give him whatever details he cannot suss out for himself – although, in typical fashion, he can suss out quite a lot. 

John has chosen to be content with that. Marriage between men is not yet legal in Britain (not that John thinks Sherlock would’ve wanted anything so sappy and sentimental anyway) but in his heart, John made that commitment ages ago and he suspects Sherlock – who never does anything by halves – felt the same. Even though Sherlock is essentially released from his end of the bargain by virtue of being unable to remember it, John is determined to remain steadfast. In sickness and in health.

_-_-_-_-_-_-_

“Mr Holmes! Dr Watson! Good to see you again!”

“John McFarlane,” John murmurs as the man approaches, hand already held out, ready to shake. “You proved his innocence in a murder investigation two or three years ago. Old boyfriend of John’s mother faked his own death and tried to implicate McFarlane in revenge.” 

“And how are you, Mr McFarlane?” Sherlock says smoothly, as if it has been on the tip of his tongue all along. 

“Very well, indeed, thanks to you,” McFarlane replies. “I’ve never forgotten how you gave me my life back, when all seemed lost. I left Norwood for London shortly afterwards – even have a wife and daughter now,” he adds, grinning. 

“Then congratulations are in order,” John cuts in, leaning forward to offer his own hand to shake. “So glad to hear things worked out for you.” 

“Thanks,” says McFarlane. “I still have nightmares about the old bastard and how he hacked my files in order to change some information and make it look like I was after his money, but,” he shrugs, “what are you going to do, eh? Could’ve been so much worse.” 

“I know,” John puts in, because Sherlock is giving him the tiny sidelong glances he recognizes as a request for information. “Only Sherlock could have noticed that the files you showed us at first been saved to a slightly later-model thumb drive from the one Lestrade showed us two days later, when the police were brought in to investigate. That’s what lead him to believe Mr Oldacre was still alive after all.” John watches Sherlock mentally file away the story and turn back to Mr McFarlane again. 

It’s been nearly a year and he’s used to it now, this deft twisting of conversations so that Sherlock can act as if he has knows precisely what someone else is referring to, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less. Still, the warmth in Sherlock’s eyes as he looks past McFarlane to John, silently conveying his thanks, makes it all worth the pain. 

He tries to remember that on nights when his bed is solitary and cold, and his own hand isn’t nearly as good as his memories of life … Before.

_-_-_-_-_-_-_

“Well,” John says, setting his book down and flexing his fingers; his scarred hand is prone to stiffness. “I’m knackered. Think I’ll head up for the night.” He glances over to Sherlock, who has been absentmindedly playing his violin and seems not to hear. “’Night, Sherlock,” he tosses out anyway, because no matter how involved Sherlock gets with an activity, John cannot help but continue to spew out social graces. Old habits die hard.

“John, wait.” 

He pauses, one foot on the bottom stair. “Yes?” Despite his usual determination, John hopes Sherlock doesn’t need anything too demanding right now. He truly is shattered after a long week, enough that for once he’s wishing he were still sharing Sherlock’s bed for the sole reason that it’s closer, rather than for sentimental purposes. 

There’s the sound of the violin being set aside, and footsteps as Sherlock crosses the room. John turns to face him, surprised that he actually stopped what he was doing and came to him, rather than simply state what he needed. 

But Sherlock pauses a few feet away, suddenly looking unsure of himself. “I don’t think I’ve ever … thanked you … for what you’ve done for me,” he says in quiet tones. 

John is astonished. Sherlock has never been prone to expressions of gratitude, either before or after the accident. “It’s fine,” he says, feeling uncomfortable. “It’s what anyone would have done for a friend.” 

“No, I don’t think so, John,” Sherlock says slowly. “Not for me. Not given the way I act toward the rest of the world, nor the way the rest of the world behaves with me.” 

John can think of nothing to say to this – it’s true, after all. 

“But _you_ -“ he emphasizes the word, “- have given me my life back, as near as I can tell. I’ve read your blog, I’ve spoken to Lestrade, to Mycroft, to others; I’ve read police reports, and they’ve all described the man I seem to be now.” Sherlock takes a step closer. “And they’ve all told me how important you are to me, to make me a better person. Not just now, but for _years_. 

“You told me once that we had been together, and I have found plenty of evidence to support that, but in all this time, you have never demonstrated this to me.” 

“I – I didn’t want to pressure you. You didn’t know me anymore, after all.” John finds himself fumbling for words. Sherlock has taken another step closer and John resists the urge to back away, because the distance between them is getting decidedly unsafe. Already he can smell a hint of the scent that is wholly _Sherlock_ , and he’s having trouble staying focused on what Sherlock is saying. 

“True – at first. But I think I know you fairly well by now. I know what you like to eat and what you like to read. I know the ridiculous websites you visit for watered-down news, and how many minutes it takes you to shower.” Abruptly, Sherlock digs into the pocket of his dressing gown and pulls out a small piece of pale blue cotton. John sucks in a breath; it’s one of his own handkerchiefs. “I found this at the back of my nightstand drawer shortly after I came home from hospital,” Sherlock continues. “The scent immediately gave away that it was yours.” 

John nods, dumbly. 

“Given its location and personal nature, I assume we were sleeping together; also, you have glanced into my bedroom on your own way to bed roughly 80% of the nights when I have also been here to observe you. I see the dilation in your pupils when you speak to me, and there are half a dozen other trivialities I could mention, but mostly…“ Sherlock takes a breath, suddenly sounding uncharacteristically shaky. “Mostly, I see your devotion in the hundreds of things you have done since I began rebuilding my life.” He absently pockets the handkerchief again, his eyes never leaving John’s. “My feelings are not readily expressed in words, so I hope you’ll forgive me for doing this.” 

And, swiftly, before John can react, Sherlock closes the remaining gap between them and kisses him. 

John almost staggers with surprise, but Sherlock’s large hands wrap around his shoulders, holding him steady. His brain is still trying to catch up, but his lips remember - _oh_ , how they remember - and he finds himself kissing back, almost desperately, in case he never gets another chance. Sherlock kisses him back just as fiercely, not holding back in the slightest. 

When they finally break for air, John tries to think of something profound to say, but all he can manage is, “Are you sure?” 

“Yes,” Sherlock murmurs, cupping John’s face in his hands and tipping his head back so they can look at each other properly. “I can’t promise that it will be like last time, but I know how I feel _this_ time.” His bright eyes search John’s anxiously. “If you’re willing to try again?” 

“God, yes,” John says, pulling Sherlock in for a fierce hug. He can’t believe this is happening, that they’re going to get this second chance.

_-_-_-_-_-_-_

And later, much later, when they’re lying in Sherlock’s bed, facing one another, John drinking in the sight of Sherlock so near, he finally thinks to ask, “Incidentally, why have you kept my handkerchief so long?” He raises an eyebrow, suspiciously. “You haven’t been doing odd experiments on it, have you?”

Sherlock actually flushes a little before answering. “Sleeping with it.” 

John blinks. “What for? You have plenty of your own.” 

“The olfactory nerves are rooted near the memory center of the brain,” Sherlock explains with remarkable patience, given that he knows John already knows this. “A particular scent can often trigger a memory that goes with it.” 

John feels ridiculously pleased to think of Sherlock curled up with something so personal, and for such a sentimental reason. “Ah, of course. So you were trying to remember me?” 

“Yes.” 

“And did it work?” 

Sherlock shakes his head. “No. But … I found I liked having you near. So I kept it,” he finishes, looking oddly sheepish. 

John reaches out and draws Sherlock closer. “I love you, you know,” he murmurs against Sherlock’s lips. “I never stopped.” 

And Sherlock kisses him back, whispering, “Yes, I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> Scene with John McFarlane involves details taken from A.C.Doyle’s _The Adventure of the Norwood Builder_.
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> Comments are Life. Please leave a comment! (Concrit is fine, too.) Thanks for reading. <3


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